


The Loch Ard

by 16pennies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Australia, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Marriage, Shipwreck, Vignette, there's only one bed, we got all the tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/16pennies/pseuds/16pennies
Summary: June 1878. Miss Hermione Granger, having grown tired of the intolerance which pervades English society, has chosen to voyage somewhere new. Yet when her adventure meets disaster, she finds herself stuck with the company of a man she’d been trying to leave behind.{historical Lumione oneshot based on the real Loch Ard shipwreck}
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 27
Kudos: 121





	The Loch Ard

**Author's Note:**

> The Loch Ard was a ship which sailed from England to Australia in 1878. Or at least she tried to; she miscalculated how near she was to Port Melbourne and ended up wrecking several hundred kilometres west of her intended destination, along the cliffs of Shipwreck Coast. All hands were lost except one woman passenger and a sailing apprentice. They took cover in a cave until they could seek help.  
> The location of the wreck is now known as Loch Ard Gorge, and when I visited a few weeks ago and walked along the beach and looked into the cave where they sheltered, this story popped into my head because apparently I can’t go anywhere without turning it into (really tropey) fanfiction.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mentioned drowning, mentioned corpses, grief, sexual imagery

**1 June 1878**

When she had first tumbled into the tumultuous waters below, she had been rather foolishly surprised by how utterly frigid it felt, quickly piercing the albeit measly barrier provided by her nightgown and robe and causing a horrid shiver which made it impossible to speak. June was hardly the height of the summer season, but surely freezing waves and chilling gusts of wind such as these must be quite out of character!

And then her wits, so completely paralysed by the alarming progression of the last several minutes, returned and she scolded herself for forgetting that this great southern land had backwards seasons and alas, she’d managed to plunge into near Antarctic waters just as winter lay its claim upon the Southern Hemisphere.

Brilliant.

Her wand slipped in her grip as she clung to a broad piece of… something. The single possession she’d managed to save as the bell woke her and the frenzied rush of panicked people had pulled her to the deck, her wand now felt frustratingly useless in her numb hands. She tried to cast yet another heating charm; the water around her warmed considerably less than the last time she’d cast it.

How many hours had passed now? She felt so tired. And the screams had stopped quite a while ago, as had the shriek of wood splitting against rock.

_Horrible, horrible, horrible_ …

She’d been asleep when the fog had cleared and the razor-like cliffs of limestone had been spotted. So much nearer to the hull than they ought to have been; too close to escape. By the time she’d awoken, shouts filled the ship and the bell clanged so vehemently that Hermione had wished she could have covered her ears as the nearly five-dozen inhabitants of the vessel raced to whatever seemed like the best escape.

It didn’t seem like any of them had found it. The eerie quiet held only the gentle lapping of waves, the occasional wind and an dull, cloudy sky with no condolences to be offered by stars or moon.

Only her own breathing, heavy against the wet wood to which she still held fast, echoed in her ears. She’d refused to use magic—hadn’t even been sure it would save the ship or what the Muggles would make of it if they caught her practicing witchcraft. Sailors could be a rather superstitious lot. And though she fancied herself a rather accomplished duelless with a shield charm that could keep out a dozen malevolent hexes, would a simple _Protego maxima!_ have been enough to keep the hull intact as it skidded along reefs and impaled itself upon the cliffs?

But, by God, now she wished she’d tried! If more than fifty people had just drowned while she pathetically clung to shrapnel, keeping herself alive with magic she’d been too afraid to share with the others, she—she wasn’t sure, but a monstrous grief surely awaited her and perhaps it would be better if she were to just… let go… like that, and drift away into the cold with the rest of them…

Something breached the water beside her, and Hermione opened her eyes to see an angry face concealed in a Bubble-Head Charm. A cool light from beneath the surface illuminated his features from below, making him look like some kind of demonic angel.

“Oh no,” she groaned, though she hadn’t meant to verbalise anything at all. “Not _you!_ ”

“None of that, foolish woman,” he grunted, and Hermione had to wonder why he would bother chastising her when it would be so much easier to just let her die instead. “Have you a wand?”

Still floating on her back, letting the cold sting her scalp like needles, she held up the thing in question. He took one look at her trembling, blue fingers and accurately surmised she was beyond the capability to cast anything useful.

“Do hold onto it, Miss Granger. Fortunately, you shouldn’t need to do much else. _Calor caeli!_ ”

Hermione gasped as hot air tingled across her, drying whatever parts were not submerged in ocean. His arm clamped down across her waist, forcing her front back into the cold as she frantically treaded water; she clung to him in terror as he held her upright so he could properly dry her head. Yet, as she struggled, she noticed something miraculous: her extremities had sensation again. The water around him felt… warm. Probably not even to the temperature of a comfortable bath, yet practically luxurious after so many hours in unbearable cold.

Her cheeks flushed from the steam now raising off them. Her hair, too, now hung dry, save for the locks longer than her shoulders which still swirled about the water. She’d gone to bed with a ribbon in it; she wondered if it waited, knotted in that mass somewhere.

“Have you enough of your wits about you to make your way to the beach, Miss Granger?”

“ _Beach?_ But there are nothing but cliffs for miles!”

With an impatient jab of his wand, he hissed, “ _Lumos maxima!_ ” and Hermione watched in awe as a ball of pure light flew forth from his wandtip, surged half a mile in front of them and then exploded, not unlike a firework, raining down droplets of illumination across clear sand which awaited them at the foot of orange-striped limestone that reached at least a hundred feet in the air. Hermione could see now how she floated within the mouth of a horseshoe-shaped mouth of rock; around her she caught glimpses of floating trunks, scraps of furniture and wood and flashes of shapes that looked far too human.

She gulped. The man at her side mistook it as trepidation at the forthcoming swim; before she could correct him, she felt another arm securely about her waist and suddenly she was being dragged quite efficiently to shore.

Wand still firmly in her hand, she wondered if she ought to try to fight him, insist she make do on her own power, yet the fact of the matter was she did not want to be alone, not in this foreign land and surrounded by corpses.

So, she allowed him, for now, to haul her body to land.

When she had first seen him on the ship shortly after departing England, she had experienced such a plummeting sensation of dread that, for a few minutes, she’d seriously considered devising some way to magically return to Britain before having to spend three months in isolation with such a malevolent wizard. _She_ had elected to make the journey because the notion of a new world attracted her: How better to prove that anti-Muggle prejudice was needless than by constructing a whole new society where equality was the rule? Populated as it was already by misfits and outcasts, not yet polluted by the snobbery of the elite which caused all social evil, Australia seemed like the ideal breeding ground for the kind of society she wanted to live in.

Merlin knew she could not tolerate London anymore. Despite having had perfectly respectable parents, their Muggle status firmly established her on the lowest rung of magical society. In her more naïve youth, she’d believed that if she’d only worked hard enough to prove her worthiness, her blood could be overlooked, and, though this had turned out to be somewhat true, it was only to an extent, and after years of taking insults and humiliations without protest, Hermione was through.

And so, she had elected to travel by Muggle means to a place where no-one knew her at all, and so wonderfully far away from England, too, where no trace of all those miseries could follow…

Except for this one, dressed as he was in pragmatic yet nevertheless fine eveningwear. The _Loch Ard_ had hardly been a luxury vessel. Why had he chosen to travel with the middle-class masses? Why with Muggles?

Why had Mr. Lucius Malfoy come _at all?_

“Pray tell, Miss Granger: Are you so faithful to your Muggle heritage that you chose to die like one?”

Hermione scoffed and wished she could see his face so that she might glare at him.

“Or did you, madam, in your determination to cling to that scrap of wood for the past five hours, forget that you are a _witch?_ ”

“I was merely observing the Statue of Secrecy, sir,” she answered, though she desperately wanted to point out that he had _acknowledged_ her as a witch. He, who symbolised everything of the inbred aristocracy and their repugnant beliefs! Perhaps the cold still addled her head; she felt herself smiling foolishly.

“ _Madwoman!_ ” he hissed. “What is the advantage of protecting their ignorance if it is that very protection which just left them to drown?” Positioned as she was flush against him, she felt his inhale as he took a composing breath. “The last one went hours ago, you know. You could have saved yourself without fear of exposure.” He sighed. “But instead, it falls it to me. Very well.”

“You c-could just leave m-me there,” she pointed out, surprised to hear her teeth begin to chatter again.

“Do not be foolish, Miss Granger,” answered he crisply. “I fear it does not become you.”

_I will be as foolish as I please, thank you very much!_ she thought quite vehemently, yet found herself lacking the energy to speak it aloud.

Suddenly, she felt soft sand between her toes and they came to a halt. “There ought to be no need for me to support you the rest of the way, Miss Granger; you may walk now.”

“Oh.” She set to the task of righting herself. Though her head remained mostly dry and the charmed waters around him had raised her body temperature nearly to its normal level, she still felt quite dreadfully amiss. Seeing that she appeared upright, he released his grip from her swiftly and she soon after found herself incapable of remaining on her feet. She wobbled and tripped and then swayed ominously as a wave smacked against her waist.

“For Merlin’s sake, Miss Granger— _Lumos!_ ” The sudden burst of light hurt her eyes; she squinted and saw grey water gently coming and going around her, and then, just ahead, the finest sand she had ever seen.

_Beautiful!_ Foolishly _(just like he said!)_ , she wondered how marvellous it must all look in daylight. Surely unlike any coast of Britain? She stumbled forward, one step, two, now feeling quite desperate to get to the sand, to feel it on her skin, to _not be wet anymore_ —

Another wave, truly not that forceful and yet no match for her exhausted delirium, crested against her shoulder-blades and her feet washed out from under her; she opened her mouth to cry out and yet only found it full of seafoam instead as the water took her down without a fragment of protest from the witch. Her head now thoroughly submerged once again, Hermione couldn’t think at all, only feel the cold slice at every inch of her as she was tossed about, utterly at the mercy of the sea.

The now familiar sensation of Mr. Malfoy’s arms came around her middle, yanking her back up to the land of the air-breathing in what surely must have been the most inelegant fashion. She didn’t like the way his forearms pressed against her underarms as he tugged her against the current, or the way his wrists crushed painfully against her breasts. She wanted to push him away, to tell him she had come all the many thousands of miles to rid herself of people like him, yet she found that even as he heaved her into something resembling a vertical position, her feet would not stay put in the sand, her knees would not secure themselves, and she could not determine which direction was up. The tremors which, before, had localised themselves to her teeth and a mild shiver, now blossomed into full-body quaking which nearly sent her back into the sea.

She heard Mr. Malfoy mutter something rude as he caught her. _Very ungentlemanlike, sir,_ she wished to scold him, yet she found she had not a scrap of rationality to her name, not even to protest as he barked, “ _Accio_ wand!” and then picked her up out of the water altogether.

“Did I not tell you quite clearly that maintaining possession of your wand was your only obligation, Miss Granger?” he grunted as he kicked his way through the waves lapping against the shore. “I suppose I find myself grateful I did not assign you anything more critical, for surely you would have done us both in.”

Held awkwardly against his chest, shaking and coughing as she was, Hermione barely comprehended his words as English.

Her lack of response did not seem to deter his need to talk.

“Now,” he instructed as she felt the resistance give way and they emerged fully onto land. His gait changed as he navigated little dunes of sand and the way it gave way so easily beneath his steps. Hermione wondered why he bothered to carry her—was he not a wizard? “I did not rescue you from certain death only for you to die, Miss Granger. Kindly do try not to expire in my arms.”

Hermione moaned, a little in pain, a little in fear, as the tremors refused to cease and her head became only more muddled—the world around her, such as it was, was spinning infinitely and she was falling, lost…

Lucius swore again as he stumbled, finding it far more difficult to find purchase in the sand now that he had a body to carry and two wands to hold. Quaking thing that she was, it seemed like she was endeavouring to writhe her way out of his grip.

“Do not tax yourself,” she murmured, barely intelligible as her tongue slurred her words into each other. “The sun will rise soon… I’ll be quite warm, thank you…”

Lucius scoffed, not daring to move his eyes from the arch of rock which promised shelter. “Miss Granger, it is nearly the winter solstice in this country. The sun will not be joining us for quite some time.” She shivered particularly violently against him. “Regardless, you are in need of something a bit more… industrious than daylight, I believe.”

He tried to set her down, but her fingers would not release from his lapels, so he begrudgingly sat in the sand himself and let her continue to cling to his front, curled in on herself in his lap.

Her eyes remained half-open yet unseeing; thus, she flinched in surprise when she felt the rim of a flask pressed to her lips.

“Drink this,” he commanded, and Hermione eagerly gulped down as many mouthfuls of whatever potion it was he offered—

Until the burning started and she spat and coughed and choked horribly while the fire continued down her gullet. Not a potion at all! _Alcohol! Brandy..?_

She wanted to scream at him, ask why he would give her spirits in such a state, but the heat now ambushing her veins conflicted too sharply with the chill which had settled now so deep inside, and she felt certain that now her body would disintegrate, that this dream-reality which was full of horrible things like a shipful of dead Muggles floating on the tide like they were no more than—than some sort of aquatic plant; like this aggravating man who, though he had never been _directly_ rude to her at the half-dozen parties and engagements where they had ever truly interacted, had always made her feel undeserving and unwanted and yet now held his wand at her, muttering incantations which made her muscles still and warm…

The world did not quite stop spinning, but rather slowed to a gentle rocking. It was the darkness that changed—became deeper, reached inside her and wrapped her up in nothing but blackness until it was all she knew.

That, and the sound of the waves.

~*~

She woke to the cries of gulls. Upon realising her own state of consciousness, her eyes opened and found the most curious drips of rock several dozen feet above her, reaching down from the arch of the cave’s mouth, like dripping wax of a candle that had since dried.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Granger.” Hermione darted up to see Mr. Malfoy reclined at the opposite side of the little grotto and reading a book of all things. He wore an ornate dressing gown over his shirtsleeves and Hermione blushed when she realised it was his overcoat which constituted the transfigured blanket she had slept upon. “I trust you’re feeling more…” he languidly turned a page, “eloquent this morning?”

Hermione stared at him briefly while he refused to look up from whatever it was he had found to read (though, given the trunks neatly gathered nearby, she suspected it must be one of his own collection. How predictable that he had managed to so gracefully save not only himself but his possessions, too). For a disorienting moment, her mind twirled as it sorted reality from delusion and eventually came to the determination that yes, this was indeed the actual state of things, that she was shipwrecked with Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and likely several hundred miles from the nearest English settlement.

But her body was dry and warm, limbs quite steady, and all that remained to betray any kind of malaise was the echo of a headache and a slight ache in her bones.

“Indeed,” said she absently, drawing her own dressing gown tighter across her chest. Her hands fell into her lap, thus triggering the realisation that they were empty and sending her into a frantic search of the ground, thrusting her fingers into the folds of the coat-blanket, looking—

“If you are in need of your wand, madam,” Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat, shutting his book with a snap. “Rest assured I saved it from a watery death of its own,” and he seemed to procure it from nowhere, holding it up for her to ascertain that it was indeed hers. To see it in his hand felt viscerally wrong somehow, and he seemed to agree for an expression of discomfort crossed his features before he elegantly tossed it to her. It sailed in a perfect arc across the width of the cavern, then settled itself into her palm. Hermione flexed her fingers around the slim length, breathing deeply at the tranquillity it wrought somewhere foundational in her being.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she felt her magic relax into the wood. It seemed to embrace her fingers in return. How odd that there had once been a time, not so very long ago, that the notion of a sentient twig would have caused her to cackle rather rudely. Yet now, here she was, with a stick of vinewood that recognised her presence like an old friend.

Taking comfort in this small parcel of good fortune, she tucked it into the pocket of her dressing gown.

And then she gasped. Quite dramatically, too, yet she could not help it as her gaze rose and met the most striking shoreline she had ever glimpsed. Not to say that she had glimpsed many, but the fineness of the sand and the richly coloured stripes of the rockface standing intimidatingly around them—it all constituted a magic of its own, she thought, and she did not once take her eyes from the breaking crests of the sea as she stumbled through the cool sand (so _soft!_ ) to the waves—

“I do not advise a swim, Miss Granger,” called Malfoy. “I assure you the sea is no warmer than last time.”

Hermione bristled; here they were, shipwrecked in a foreign land, and he still could not leave an opportunity to mock her intelligence.

However, his bitter little games were not worthy of her attention, and so she quite happily ignored him in favour of her examination of the beach.

Bits of debris and shrapnel lay haphazardly along the small strip of coast and as she looked out into the sea, embraced as it was by these tall reaches of rock, she could see bits and bobs floating in the water, too. Awful, all this destruction, and yet still she found herself in awe of the natural majesty in which she stood. She gazed across the sand, up the fascinatingly striped cliffs with all their rough edges to where they climbed, several dozen feet up until they met the sky, and there was the suggestion of plant life just barely spilling over the edge…

As she moved nearer to the waves, near enough for the freezing water to brush her toes, she saw that the beach was not quite as narrow as it had seemed, and that the rockface gave way to another length of sand. Granted, the difference was perhaps a few moments’ stroll, but every inch felt like an offering of freedom.

The most fascinating distraction, perhaps, was the mangled remains of a grand piano. Most of its body lay in one wounded piece on the sand, however a leg was missing and the lid had been horribly broken, revealing water pooling amongst the strings. The image was a sad one and Hermione wondered to whose cargo it had belonged. Scattered nearby lay sparkling chunks of ceramic and, as Hermione approached them (carefully so as not to step on anything sharp), she saw they were painted in brilliant shades of blue and orange and green. Further investigation revealed more shards of varying sizes, some floating in the foamy waves, including one which seemed to have an eye painted on. She could not resist her curiosity—a few moments’ magic and she had repaired the mess into an elaborate earthenware peacock. The creature stood proudly, plumage humbly tucked away yet painted with such detail and opulence that Hermione had to walk around it several times in order to feel she had truly appreciated it all.

“Have you adequately amused yourself?”

Hermione turned to see Mr. Malfoy approaching her, arms crossed, his expression only a few polite shades away from a scowl. The sun had emerged from behind its thick blanket of cloud; when he moved into the shadow of the peacock sculpture (for it stood taller than him) she found him clean shaven and well groomed. She suddenly wondered what her hair must look like and resisted the urge to pull her dressing gown tighter across her nightclothes.

“Is this your cargo, sir?”

He spared the massive painted bird barely half a glance. “Of course not.”

“Oh? I’ve heard stories of peacocks on your estate. Perhaps you wanted to bring a token of home?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. Although if your stories were true, you would know Malfoy peacocks are _white_ , Miss Granger. Not to mention, alive.”

Had she heard such things? She could not remember, nor did she care. Truly, she could not understand why _anyone_ would wish to haul such a thing across the world. A beautiful work of craftmanship, for sure, but hardly worth the voyage!

The water seemed suddenly darker as her thoughts turned to the passengers. How could she bear to stand alone amongst a sea of dead? She wished she could look beyond the sand, where she had seen shoes or hands and had not been brave enough to _keep_ looking—

“Enough of this. Now, if you refuse to use your magic for anything practical—” He waved his wand in an elegant gesture; Hermione watched as her belongings burst from the ocean and soared to his feet, where they dried and folded themselves into her trunk. “Dress, Miss Granger, and dress for a journey. It is time we leave.”

“Leave? Should we not wait for rescue?”

“Miss Granger, have you any idea where we are?”

Hermione eyed the cliffs surrounding them. Of course she hadn’t a clue! But it was also wildly obvious that there was no feasible way for a Muggle to escape this gorge, and so Hermione fully intended to wait for local help to arrive and feign ignorance as to their miraculous survival.

“This country is barely colonised. The _Loch Ard_ missed her port, Miss Granger. Possibly by several hundred miles. Several hundred miles of _unpopulated_ country. No-one will know to look for us, least of all _where_ , and so if you desire to live the rest of your life anywhere except this rotting beach, I suggest you come with me.” And with a sharp bow of his head, he turned and strode away, presumably back to the cave where she had woken.

Hermione could not argue with his logic and would not try to. With a sad glance at the peacock, she dressed herself in daywear and went to meet him, trunk floating along behind her.

“Miss Granger, do you truly mean to tell me that you have never flown a broom before?”

“No,” retorted Hermione, sweating even as the cool breeze raced across the land. Apparating to the top of the cliffs had revealed an endless horizon of sand and bush and Hermione knew now that there was truly no hope of rescue to be had. But still, she didn’t want to _fly!_ “I’ve flown many brooms. I’ve just never particularly enjoyed it.”

“I am not asking you to enjoy it, I am asking you to mount it. Close your eyes, if you must, but there is no other way to travel to Melbourne.”

Nausea rose in her gut; she forced it away, desperate not to disgrace herself in front of this man and yet equally so not to have to fly hundreds of feet in the air, speeding across this treacherous country for hours—

“Miss Granger,” said Malfoy, a warning.

“Yes, very well! Just—just please do not ridicule me, sir.”

“Whatever for?” Oh, he sounded quite impatient now, but he would have to wait just a moment longer. He had not brought a lady’s broom, after all, and as she could not ride his side-saddle without falling…

To his credit, he did not laugh when she magicked her skirts to split and sew down the middle, creating very puffy trouser-legs; he did snort. _Most ungentlemanlike_.

Gingerly, she straddled the broom and tried to breathe as he mounted behind her. “You needn’t hold on so hard, you know,” he chided, and then they were flung high into the air. She screamed while he chuckled as the ground dropped farther away, now a landscape of orange and green stretching endlessly to her left while the ocean, brilliantly blue and speckled with protrusions of striped limestone, reached to her right. Either horizon seemed to bring the end of the world, and though this was not why she had boarded a ship, she had never seen Earth like this in the Northern Hemisphere.

When they at last touched down in Melbourne, Hermione’s limbs had lost all feeling. Her fingers twitched as she restored her dress to its normal configuration and shook out her skirts. Beside her, Mr. Malfoy shrunk the broom and stowed it in one of his trunks. They politely ignored each other as they reacquainted themselves with the ground and Hermione’s mind spun with wild panic as to how she ought to address this man who, it seemed, was now an integral part of her existence here.

 _Here_ , precisely, was a shrub. The grass smelled different; even the trees were new shapes, and, though the greenery in which they stood was clearly well-groomed, it all felt a little bit wild.

Yet she could hear the sounds of civilised life in the near distance—muted conversation and the rhythm of horses. It turned something in her stomach, for here was that new society she had longed for.

It suddenly seemed far more daunting than she’d envisioned. And standing here, where even the sunlight seemed different, Hermione felt rather small.

“Well, Miss Granger,” came Mr. Malfoy’s voice. He had donned a fine-looking Muggle gentleman’s hat. It rather suited him. “Here we are.”

“Indeed.”

The sound of animated conversation (two ladies) drifted by. Hermione stilled upon realising how near they stood to what must be a path; she held her breath and sensed Mr. Malfoy do the same until the voices moved further along.

“I didn’t think this would be so close to the heart of the city,” murmured he. “From the sky, it looked like a forest.”

Hermione scoffed. “Sir, we are in the Botanic Gardens. It practically _is_ the heart of the city. Did you not do any research about where you were travelling to?”

Bristling, Malfoy countered, “I hardly find _horticulture_ relevant. However, since you’ve thought about this so much, where do you intend go now that you have safely arrived at your destination, madam?”

His icy gaze and the clean arch of his eyebrow held her, suspended amongst the luscious greenery like a helpless insect beneath a pin. She wished she had another clever retort with which to disarm him, but truly she had no good answer, and her wings wilted a little.

“This country may not yet be well colonised, as you said, but this city already has a vibrant, growing community. I intended— _intend_ to find lodging. For a few days, at least, er, and then… and then see what might become of me.”

Merlin, it sounded so foolish when she said it out loud on foreign soil! Privately, she’d had wonderful imaginings of being swept up by the local community, becoming an irreplaceable voice amongst the growing wizarding society, advocating for the rights of witches—

And now, she realised that she was a foreigner with no connections and limited money who did not even speak the same English as the settlers here. How utterly thoughtless!

Yet to her immense surprise (and relief), Mr. Malfoy spoke gently. “As it so happens, that was my design, also. And as I am not the sort to abandon a lady to a strange country—”

He extended his elbow in her direction.

Surely this would be the utmost humiliation, to be paraded around on the arm of this man? To let him lead her into this new life, to where she had travelled explicitly to escape people like him?

But, by God, she did not want to be alone here.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. The creased material of his sleeve felt heavy against her fingertips.

Without a word, he led them through the shrubs and trees until they broke through onto a pretty gravelled path, artfully paved through an elegant landscape of ponds and plants unlike any she had ever seen. Flowers of fascinating shapes and colours— _imagine what herbological potential must lie in this one plot alone!_

Mr. Malfoy tugged her to a strolling pace as they fell into step with the other elegantly attired couples and families. Hermione could hardly keep herself from spying—their clothes, their manners, expressions..!

Hermione had never been particularly fashion-conscious, and though she hardly had the instinct for trends, she could see the unusualness in the dress of the ladies around her. If this was truly an average winter’s day, then the weather in this country must be far milder than England. There were no heavy cloaks to be seen, and the styles seemed a season or two behind, though Hermione could not pinpoint precisely how.

A force sharply tugged her arm and Hermione exclaimed. Glaring at Mr. Malfoy proved fruitless; he ignored her and maintained an impenetrable, bored expression, even as he murmured, “Do endeavour not to fall into the street, Miss Granger.”

Hermione scoffed.

Yet his words had merit: They now made their way down a busy road, perhaps the largest of the city. People of all sort rushed by while the rhythmic beating of horse hooves and dull groan of carriages disturbed the dust. Hermione stared, utterly thrilled, and let Malfoy tow her along.

In civil silence they walked for miles, until her hems dirtied and her feet ached. Mr. Malfoy patiently waited when she needed to adjust her hat and other such things, and she did not ask him if he intended a particular destination.

Though it seemed he did, for just as Hermione ogled the sudden expanse of sea which had materialised before them, she also realised they now stood before a hotel.

Mr. Malfoy hummed thoughtfully as he surveyed the white façade. “Shall we enquire?”

Hermione could find no reason to object.

The Hotel Esplande, as it was named in bold lettering, looked like any grand seaside hotel in a coastal English town. It advertised itself as the most luxurious and modern establishment in Melbourne, and upon reading those words, something dreadful twisted in Hermione’s gut. She understood that the Australian economy, while utilising the English Pound, was quite small, certainly in comparison to England. Foolishly, she realised, she had not planned for any other eventuality. And if she were wrong? Mr. Malfoy may be able to finance anything, but she certainly could not.

While the wizard discussed his own lodging with the gentleman in charge, Hermione detached herself from his arm and waited a few paces away. Her trunks and purse remained secure in her pocket while she anxiously calculated what she could afford to spend on a room and if she would be willing to lower herself to a feminine fit of tears to persuade a kind-hearted soul to save her a few pence—

A young uniformed man interrupted her despair and enquired as to her luggage, that he might take it up to their suite while her husband finalised the arrangements?

_Husband?_

Bewildered, she looked to Mr. Malfoy who, in turn, looked at her in evident alarm. What had he said? Could this have been his intention from the start? To masquerade as married?

The colour of his eyes shifted into something steelier and Hermione caught a heightening of his posture. “Our belongings will arrive later, thank you,” he told the porter with an aristocratic authority that quickened Hermione’s temper.

A moment later, he had a key in hand and a palm on her back, guiding her up a richly carpeted staircase.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” hissed Hermione.

“My, my, _darling_ , I’ve never heard you use such words.”

“We are not married!”

“Are we not? I hadn’t noticed.”

She made an unintelligible sound of fury; he only maintained his mild expression and searched for the door with the correct brass number. Upon finding it, he opened it with a wandless charm and followed her in, promptly stopping short as she whirled upon him, shouting, “You are shocking, sir! Though I am hardly surprised any longer—is this truly what you think of me?!”

“By Salazar’s name—”

She gestured to the open bedroom where a single elegantly dressed bed waited. “You, sir, have manipulated me to your own advantage! Thought you could—could take advantage of my vulnerability in a strange new country, did you, sir?”

“Miss Granger—”

“You said you didn’t want to abandon me to a foreign land when, really, you’ve been scheming to _seduce_ me!”

“Miss Granger!” He was bellowing now and, having run out of things of which to accuse him, Hermione quieted, fuming. “Miss Granger, I assure you that I never intended any harm or deception.”

Hermione scoffed.

“My expressions to you before were quite genuine. As for this—” he gestured to the suite in which they stood (which, Hermione could see now, was quite well furnished and generously spacious, comprising of several rooms), “I assure you, I only intended to secure accommodation for myself. I believe the staff merely assumed, given your presence, that we are… a party. And, as _you_ did not object when confronted, neither did I.”

“So, I am to blame for this—?”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, though the bemused smirk did not leave his lip. “Not at all; merely a gross misunderstanding. And, before you perform irreparable acts of magic upon my person, I might add that if it were my _intention_ to debauch you, I would certainly go about it with far more… elegance.”

“Oh, you—!”

But before she could pull her wand from her dress and aim it at something sensitive, he had slithered out of sight.

The fire of her temper cooled as quickly as it had ignited; her ire shifted into trepidation upon realising that she was indeed in a stylish suite with no-one but this man for company. Nay, no-one but this man in the _country_. And was that not a troubling thought?

The gentleman in question stood near the balcony, charming the curtains to his preferred shade of evergreen.

“Why not draw yourself a bath, Mrs. Malfoy? Calm your nerves.”

“Ha!”

“Very well.” And, without a glance at her at all, he strode to the washroom himself.

~*~

A heavy blanket lay across her shoulders and cloudy sunlight brushed her face. It all seemed so alien: the steady ground, the rush of seawater so far away, the cries of unknown birds. For one bizarre and alarming moment, she thought she had once again awoken aboard ship and swiftly relived the horror of the wreck, then all the subsequent events which had brought her here, asleep on a transfigured chaise, in a nauseating moment of amnesiac vertigo.

And then it passed, she opened her eyes, and Mr. Lucius Malfoy was sat opposite her, newspaper in hand, eating toast.

“Good morning, madam,” he greeted, and Hermione loathed that he could tell she had woken without having to move his eyes from the paper. _Unbearable man!_

Without giving him the honour of an address, she pulled herself into a seated position, bringing the blanket around her shoulders in a semblance of modesty. How awkward she felt to be once again wearing only her nightclothes while he sat fully dressed.

Nonetheless, the breakfast spread did look lovely (as lovely as dinner had been), and she found herself suddenly quite famished. Perhaps sensing her appetite (or merely reacting to her sudden and overwhelming yawn), Malfoy magically nudged the teapot closer to the empty cup and saucer on her side of the breakfast table.

She poured and added cream, and somehow, that was how the rest of her life began.

**6 June 1878**

“There is talk of building a railway station. A proper one, I mean, very much like Kings Cross.”

“I see. And why should I be interested in trains?” Mr. Malfoy did not look up as he spoke. Six days now they had been in Melbourne and he refused to look at anything other than his newspaper at mealtime, even while she talked. Perhaps he did such a thing to dissuade her from speaking at all, but Hermione had never been one to bow in the face of adversary.

“Do you not find it intriguing, sir? A railway service may stimulate broader travel across the country. It also opens the possibility for magical steam engines, such as the one which has brought every magical British child to Hogwarts for so many years. Is that not exciting?”

“The geography of this country would make railway an incredibly unwise mode in which to travel to a single school, you’ll find. Indeed, the local society acknowledge they are at least one generation away from establishing such an institution at all. As for domestic travel,” he languidly turned a page, “are you longing for a holiday, Mrs. Malfoy?”

_Infuriating man!_ Hermione pressed her lips so tightly together she was sure they must have turned as white as the fish on her plate. The meal in question was quite delectable, and the taste of this _barramundi_ was sure to spoil her palate for any English fish ever again, though Mr. Malfoy’s irksome companionship had a tendency to sour even the most heavenly repast. She had a compelling suspicion that nearly everything he did was chosen with the express purpose of vexing her.

“I cannot speak for Mrs. Malfoy’s wants,” she answered with deliberate indifference even as her fingers gripped her cutlery with far too much force, “for I am not she. Perhaps you might ask her yourself, sir.”

Mr. Malfoy turned a page of his paper. Surely, he must have read the entire thing twice over by now! “She is on the other side of the Earth.”

“And so she does not exist to you anymore?” She had not wanted to raise her voice, but Hermione found it increasingly difficult not to shout at the man who seemed to think geographical distance negated his own marriage!

“Rest assured, madam, I am fully aware of her existence. She and I are good friends, I’ll have you know.” He ate a bit of fish; Hermione scowled, her fury itching with every movement of his jaw as he chewed and then dabbed his lip with a serviette. “If you really must know,” he said at length, and in a tone which suggested he truly did not wish her to know at all, “we are, frankly, little more than friends. We come to happy arrangements all the time; this is merely one of them.”

Hermione frowned. Were these “arrangements” of an indelicate sort? Was the nature of the Malfoy marriage common gossip in England? She could not say, for she had never paid much attention to the trivial slander which feverishly made its way through society. (Now, to her shame, she wished she had.)

Mr. Malfoy looked at her for the first time since they had sat for dinner, his gaze direct and piercing. Clearly, he desired a conclusion to the uncomfortable conversation Hermione had initiated, though she could not quite resolve the notion of a wife’s contentment with her husband’s prolonged and perhaps permanent departure overseas.

“Forgive my prying, sir, but your wife… She gave you her blessing to travel here?”

“Most vehemently. As long as she can host her parties and paint her pictures, she is quite content, I assure you.”

_Is such a marriage truly a marriage at all if one can travel around the world from the other and neither is affected with any great severity?_ Hermione could not say, though some part of her felt eased by the assurance that there was not a bereaved wife in Malfoy Manor, grieving her husband’s departure and wondering fruitlessly if he will ever return.

“My apologies for intruding, sir.”

A polite bow of his head, and his gaze returned to the paper.

**1 July 1878**

TOTAL WRECK OF THE _LOCH ARD_ , AND GREAT LOSS OF LIFE

 _It is our sad duty to record the total loss of another fine ship on the treacherous and rock-bound coast of Australia—the_ Loch Ard _, bound from England to Melbourne, having become a total wreck near Sherbrook Inlet, a few miles from Warrnambool, Victoria, on Saturday morning, June 1._

Hermione’s fingers clenched, seizing the paper so that she may stare, appalled, at the illustration of the ship surrendering to the sea, her passengers clinging to each other as the waters curled around them, a nest of cobras ready to strike—

_This large and handsome ship was under the command of Captain Gibb, and had on board a cargo of 3275 tons, valued at £53,700, which was insured only to the extent of £30,000. She had a crew of 30 hands, all of whom met with a watery grave. She carried also 17 passengers, whose names are listed as follows: …_

Her eyes continued on, though her heart ached and tore at every name, every remembered face and voice. Three months! Three months they had spent amongst each other, in fear and wonder at the endless expanse of the great ocean, sharing songs and stories old and new, carrying each other across the Equator, around the lobe of Africa, incessantly onwards…

Each word wounded her deeply, yet she could not stop herself from reading on. To her shame, she had not thought much on how the disaster had been brought about. Clipper ships wrecked all the time, did they not? Yet this article described a night of fog and missed lighthouses, a ship sailing to her grave and beyond hope of saving.

The wreckage still rotted there, and apparently had become quite the amusement for local residents. Hermione’s temper bristled at the thought: Did they hope to salvage something pretty? To profit from tragedy? Or did they go to ogle the gore—the unidentifiable bodies bloated by the sea, gouged by the fallen mast?

At least those that had washed ashore had been given the dignity of burial, if unnamed.

If only she had remained on the beach! She knew all their faces. But would she even be able to identify them anymore?

“Is the paper not to your taste this morning? Perhaps you ought to try _The Age_ , though I do find this gentleman’s fixation on horseracing rather fatiguing.”

Hermione ignored the proffered newspaper; indeed, she hardly noticed Malfoy at all as her eyes frantically read and reread the horror she had sequestered to a dark corner of her mind where it may decay into oblivion, never to be spared a thought—!

The paper disappeared from her hands so violently that a scrap of it remained, clinched by her numb fingers. _The Age_ replaced it. “Read about the horseracing,” ordered Mr. Malfoy as he vanished the confiscated article. “It’ll do you good.”

Hermione declined, and, after a glance at her breakfast, excused herself.

She had only meant it for a moment to compose herself, yet as she found privacy behind the screen they had erected, bisecting the bedroom, she no longer felt able to return to the breakfast room. How could she? Indeed, how could she do anything at all when over fifty innocent lives had been so brutally taken?

The whole country would have read about it by teatime, and then people would make conversation on the subject, no doubt. She couldn’t bear it; what could she say should someone eagerly gossip about the drama of such a ship wrecking itself along the coast? _Indeed, such tragedy! Can you imagine it?_

But the true misfortune, Hermione thought in anguish, was that she had not also been taken by the sea to die with the rest of them. She did not deserve this life she had stolen with her magic, no more than sweet Eva Carmichael and her entire, dear family…

All her limbs had gone numb, her body as unfeeling as it had been when she had clung to the wreckage, adrift. The ballast of her grief pulled her downwards, her weight sinking into her bed, until all she could hear was the silent lapping of the sea.

Thusly she remained for the rest of the day, until the arrival of supper drew her to the table where, awash in equal parts self-pity and self-loathing, she silently consumed enough to quell her hunger before politely excusing herself and returning to her bed. No matter her distractions or preoccupations, no thought could enter her mind without containing in it somewhere the shrieks of the dying, their faces and embraces in the joyful days before they had been so horribly drowned. To do anything else seemed entirely impossible, and surely the dead deserved a day’s undistracted grief? Was it not her obligation, not only as their friend, but as another human being to honour their loss in such a manner?

With a solemn closing of her eyes, Hermione began the arduous task of persuading herself to sleep.

~*~

“This is quite ridiculous. You’ve been abed all afternoon. Do you truly intend to stay like this the entire day, as you did yesterday?”

“Did you not see me at table yesterday evening? Perhaps you need spectacles, sir.”

“Do not toy with me, I haven’t the patience for it.”

“You never have patience.”

“Madam, you will get up and dress yourself. Now.”

“Don’t you have an appointment to keep?”

“I am not leaving you in such a state, lest you try anything rash. Now, rise by your own will or I will magically compel you to obey mine.”

“Such spells are illegal, even here.”

“Do not doubt my creativity, my dear; I can make you stand while remaining perfectly within the confines of the law.”

“I am not your ‘dear.’”

“However, the rest of this building is under the impression that you are my wife, and they will no doubt grow alarmed if they hear you screaming.”

“Then leave me be!”

“Enough! I refuse to watch this pathetic performance of self-pity a moment longer!”

“It isn’t self-pity!” she cried, for now he had truly ignited something within her, and she sat up, nestled amongst her bedclothes, and glared at him furiously. “This is grief, sir! Though I suspect you haven’t the heart to feel such an emotion!”

He moved from where he stood in the doorway, dressed as finely as was his usual standard; his measured steps fell dully on the carpet. “You will cease this. Today. I have allowed you to carry on long enough.”

“You do not _allow_ me to do anything!”

“Furthermore, may I point out that this ‘grief’ of yours does nothing to benefit those whom you mourn.”

“They were my FRIENDS!”

“Then I am quite sure they would much rather you do something better with your time than lie in bed!”

Hermione could not say how she had got there, but she now stood directly in front of Mr. Malfoy, the fine buttons of his waistcoat mere inches away. She longed to tear them off his expensive suit, to rip apart everything that he thought made him better than everyone else!

She met his gaze with all her fury and coldly hissed, “They did not deserve to die.” But her ire did not last, and her eyes closed as sorrow wracked her once again. “And we did not deserve to survive.”

“That is not true—”

“If you attempt to persuade me that our magic made us more worthy—!”

“I will not argue anything of the sort! In this case, you have attached far too much meaning to a simple act of tragedy. The world was unjustly cruel that night, and whether you choose to blame it on the Muggles’ gods or any other force, you cannot change the fact of the matter! They are dead, and we are not. Accept it and quit this… wallowing.”

Hermione stared at him, his chillingly blue irises. The hard setting of jaw and quickness of breath betrayed his frustrated impatience, and while a part of her delighted in irritating him to such a state, her mind would not cease its tumultuous consumption of emotion. Could his words be true? Had it all just been a terribly unfair act of nature—or God? Such would make her survival nothing but chance, their deaths a random act of Fate…

Something deep within her gave way and with it came an exhausting release of emotion. It travelled out of her like a sigh, leaving her willowy in its wake.

Mr. Malfoy saw something in her alter to his satisfaction, for his posture relaxed and he averted his eyes from her person. “Kindly dress yourself, madam.” His voice, too, bled of hostility, returned to its polite drawl. “I do indeed have an appointment to keep. I will return by evening.”

He bowed and was gone.

With him, he seemed to take the heaviest of her grief, for she found herself suddenly quite aware of the world around her. Namely, her unkempt hair, which she had not bothered to tie before sleeping, and her nightclothes. _Oh, how dreadfully embarrassing_.

But, she thought with conviction, today she would make something of herself. She would bathe, and dress, and perhaps go down by the beach with a book. (She had taken to pinching them from Mr. Malfoy’s collection. If he noticed, he said nothing.)

Hermione would live some part of her life today, for all those who could not.

**16 August 1878**

Hermione looked up from her tea, which she had been stirring to her preferred shade, at the sound of a cough. Mr. Malfoy sat opposite her at the breakfast table, an expectant look in his eye, and Hermione set down her spoon.

“Forgive me, I merely have a brief issue I wish to speak to you of.”

Swallowing, Hermione tried to quell the sudden squirming in her gut. What matter could possibly warrant such a formal conversation? “Go on.”

“We have been residing here for six weeks now, as you know, and I find myself quite… shall we say, dissatisfied with the notion of extending the present situation.”

Hermione blanched; he did not intend to cover the cost of her lodging. Of course, she had known this, but to hear it said aloud filled her with more potent dread than she had anticipated. “Sir, I will of course repay you for your generosity—”

Holding up a hand, he said, “Do not insult us both, madam. You’ve told me of the work you do with the women’s charity. You cannot possibly repay me, nor do I expect you to.”

Hermione blinked.

“I merely mean to say that I do not wish to spend the rest of my time in this country living in a hotel.”

“I… suppose that would be understandable.” Though in truth, Hermione had not thought of it. If one had a roof and a bed, what difference did it make?

“You remember Mr. Linlithgow?”

“The gentleman you’ve been meeting?” Hermione knew relatively little of his growing network in Australia; it hardly felt important to question him about such things when her own budding collaboration with local charitable foundations consumed so much of her thought.

“One of them, yes.” Malfoy drank. Hermione watched the cup hesitate by his lips and wondered what this Linlithgow could possibly have to do with their hotel. At great length, Malfoy returned his coffee to its saucer. “He has given me a property.”

“Pardon?”

“A house.”

“Oh. _Oh._ I see.” For a brief moment, Hermione felt perfectly still, and then it all came together quite dramatically in her head. He would be moving! Likely into some preposterously nice manor, or as close as they had, in Melbourne. But she would be on her own, and with no substantial money to speak of. Perhaps her contacts at the women’s organisations could assist her, but—

She would sort it all out later; for now, she must appear cool and unaffected.

She took a sip of tea and tried to do it as slowly as he had done; the china rattled as her trembling hand put it back on its saucer. “I see. And when will you be moving? I only ask that you give me a day’s warning, so that I may collect my belongings without causing trouble.”

Malfoy looked at her inscrutably, as though weighing how to answer, and she loathed the pity she could see in his eyes. Perhaps it would be easier for all involved if he were to throw her out onto the street right then.

“You are, of course, welcome to do whatever you like, however… I have visited this property. It’s not that far from here, closer to the centre of the city. It is well designed. Not like the manor in Wiltshire (though I’m not sure you ever visited), but regardless, there are plenty of rooms. And, in the name of practicality, you would be… welcome.”

Hermione blinked, waiting for the meaning of his halting speech to resolve itself in her mind. Once she had convinced herself that she had not gone completely mad, she asked, “Are you inviting me to live with you, Mr. Malfoy?”

The wizard returned to his breakfast with an air of confidence Hermione suspected to be false. “As I said, it is only practical. What’s more, as the house is quite large, we would likely see each other even less than we do now. Of course, you are welcome to decline, if you wish.”

Hermione watched him, searching for a trick or deception. Surely, he must know that she had no other option. Yet why extend such an invitation at all? She could not understand it.

But neither could she refuse. There was still a dozen of his books she had yet to read.

“That is most kind of you, sir. I am grateful to accept.”

**20 October 1878**

“Might I speak with you a moment?”

Hermione turned from her text to the gentleman lingering in the doorway. The midmorning sunlight made the paleness of his eyes and hair flash. Perhaps that why that was why he disliked the parlour? He seemed to prefer his study, which faced west. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“What are your engagements a fortnight from this Tuesday?”

Hermione took a moment to calculate today’s date and the date in question, all the while her head still swarmed with descriptions of native flora and their possible uses in potions. “A fortnight?”

“Yes. In the first week of November.”

Hermione hardly had a social calendar. Her work never extended much past three or four o’clock; she highly doubted that would change in two weeks’ time and, furthermore, could not conceive of a reason Malfoy should be at all invested in her social activities.

He took her silence as answer and declared, “Very well; you will be attending a party.”

“A party?”

“Yes.” Hermione watched in open-mouthed horror as he instructed her, “You need a proper gown. The ladies here like to charm theirs; you’d best do the same, though take care Muggles won’t notice,” and promptly left the room, all coolness and aristocratic nonchalance.

_Horrible, horrible man!_

**5 November 1878**

“You told me this would be a party, not a horserace!”

“In all honesty, madam, I didn’t know, myself. Ah! There they are.”

He pulled her through the poshly attired crowds, her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow digging into the fabric of his overcoat. Hermione swiftly began to resent every second of this affair.

“Malfoy!”

“Good day, Premier.”

“Good day, indeed! Ah! And who’s this? I knew you couldn’t hide your wife from us forever, Lucius! Pray tell, madam, what is your name? I’m afraid Lucius has neglected to tell us. Quite the dog, isn’t he?”

The gentleman took her free hand and Hermione found herself utterly helpless but to answer, “Hermione, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”

He expressed what a pleasure it was to make her acquaintance, kissed her knuckles, and was then promptly surrounded by a sea of others desperate to shake his hand. Malfoy deftly guided them away from the crowd, and Hermione took the brief moment of privacy to turn to him and accuse, “You told them I am your wife!”

“Hush! I give you my word I did no such thing; he merely assumed, as was done the day we arrived, if you remember. And I daresay you were correct not to contradict him, lest we raise more questions than we can answer.”

“But now you must introduce me as such to all your other acquaintances!”

“Does that upset you, _darling?_ ”

“Malfoy! Is that why you brought me here? So that you may impress your fellows with a witch on your arm?”

“Must you always think the worst of me, my dear? If you must know, I brought you here because I thought you might enjoy it.” His eyes searched the crowds and the dusty racecourse, his lips pressed together in thought. “However,” he murmured, “since we are, as you so astutely pointed out, rather trapped in this masquerade, it will not do for you to address me by my surname in public. I daresay it may heighten suspicions.”

“Suspicions that we are not, in fact, a happy couple?” retorted Hermione sourly.

“It is far easier to stage a false marriage than it is a false divorce, _Hermione_.”

He had never before used her given name. Hearing it sent something in her ribs terribly askew.

She glared at him, gritting her teeth together. “ _Lucius._ ”

He chuckled. “Come, my sweet. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my associates.”

The shouts during the race drove Hermione to the edge of her tolerance. Malfoy— _Lucius_ shared her indifference yet seemed to derive plenty of amusement by watching her grow more and more irritated by the masses. He had bet on a horse, as was expected, but hardy enough money to be of consequence. The wizards around them enjoyed proposing magical interference to cheat the race. It took all Hermione’s restraint not to transfigure them into horses themselves.

Neither did she enjoy the company of the witches very much. They had fawned over her gown and the embroidery she’d charmed into the silhouette of a crane which fluttered across the silk of her skirts. Then, they had turned to airing grievances about their marriages, and Hermione had quietly excused herself to a different part of the box where she might be undisturbed, save by her own _husband_.

“Would it comfort you at all to know there will be a proper party this evening?”

Hermione moaned and continued to miserably watch the horses gallop. This decidedly was not how she had anticipated passing her Tuesday afternoon.

“Lucius,” she queried. Merlin, but speaking his name felt like the most profound transgression!

“Yes, my dear?”

She ignored the endearment. “The man you were speaking to earlier. Premier, you said?”

“Indeed. The Honourable Sir Graham Berry, Premier of Victoria.”

“But he’s—he’s—”

“A Muggle?”

“A radical! His politics are scandalously divisive! His policies restrict the privileges of landowners—people like you! Why on Earth should you desire his acquaintance?”

“Did you not answer your own question? He is the Premier. He carries more political influence in this territory than anybody else. Why should I not desire the acquaintance of such a man?”

Hermione floundered, unsure of how to convey the fact that wealthy, self-serving individuals such as himself did not freely associate with tolerable people who care for their fellow man.

“He will be at the party tonight, as will several other politicians, Muggle and otherwise. Speak to them yourself. I find myself interested in what you will make of them.”

If Hermione heard “Calamia” one more time, she thought she might go utterly mad. Albeit a pretty name for a horse, she would have happily shot the creature if it would put an end to the toasts and cheers.

The dinner party offered a welcome change, if partly because she was quite hungry for a proper meal after nothing but champagne and cakes, and general conversation moved on from equestrian subjects.

To be constantly addressed as “Lucius’ lovely wife” and “Mrs. Hermione Malfoy” became less a cause for alarm and more a tired necessity. Nevertheless, the sudden presence of his hand against her back, her arm, her bare wrist never failed to take her by surprise; his soft addresses by her given name, or with increasingly diverse endearments left her wordless.

She dearly wished to not be disarmed anymore by these behaviours. Where were her sharp retorts and remarks? Yet even if she found her wits again, she could not break her performance in company.

Instead, she talked to Premier Berry, of his time in England and around Australia, his rising political career, the policies he currently fought for in parliament, the contrasting natures of English and Australian governments. He told stories with such good humour and described law so expertly that Hermione’s opinion of him was quite soundly formed by the time Lucius asked her of it when they returned home.

“I think he is extraordinary. Truly, he is a man willing to do whatever he must to gain protections for his vulnerable constituents, and a thoroughly pleasant person to be around. I only find it a pity that he has deemed you to be worthy of his company.”

“Oh?”

“You had everything in England, Lucius; wealth and influence and an estate much bigger than this one. Why on Earth would you come here, where nobody knows who you are, where there is hardly a wizarding government to be infiltrated?”

“No doubt, you are about to educate me as to my own motivations.”

“You’d have never befriended the Muggle Prime Minister of Great Britain, would you? Do you even know his name? Nor would you associate with the Royal Family, in which there is still the notion of superior blood to which you hold dear! But the Muggle politicians here… You mean to plant the seed of your influence, Lucius. And, as the magical society here has yet to flourish, you are doing what you can to establish enough power in the Muggle one for when there will be enough wizards to—to—”

“To?”

“To take control!”

Hermione’s breaths beat heavily against the stiff bodice of her evening gown; she could hear the flaps of the embroidered bird’s wings as it fluttered anxiously across the silk. For his part, Lucius seemed quite cool. He had acquired a glass of liquor. Hermione wished for a gulp of it.

“I see. And this is your estimation of me, is it?”

“Am I in error?”

“Perhaps not. Though if that is what drew _me_ here, what of yourself?”

“I—” she swallowed. “I came here to be free of all that. And to help those I can.”

“Your charities for women.”

“Yes, for now. I spoke to Premier Berry about that, as a matter of fact. He thinks our work is noble. He wants to assist.”

“Can he?” He spoke it like a challenge, one Hermione knew, with immense unhappiness, she could not win.

“He did say he would try to introduce a bill offering some sort of protections for women and children of few means.” How she loathed all this—the bureaucracy, the tiresome protocols of government! “However, our most immediate need is money. To maintain our properties and to acquire supplies, medicine…”

“And he cannot give it to you?”

“Well, no. He cannot redistribute money from the Department of Treasury of his own will. You know this, surely.”

“I see.” Lucius tipped back his tumbler until it was empty. “And of how much are your charities in need?”

Hermione scoffed. “There is hardly a limit on how much they would accept!” She was not fond of doing the sums, for the figures always turned out to be frightful. Her fingers picked at the lace edging of her bodice; oh, how much she longed to be out of this dress and in bed instead of having this vexing conversation! “Mr. Berry and I were discussing a starting sum of ten-thousand pounds—"

“I will write a cheque tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Ten-thousand pounds? I will make you a cheque tomorrow. I shall leave the address blank so you may make it out to whichever organisation you please. Kindly keep me abreast of the result and, in a few weeks’ time, we will discuss the next figure.”

Staring at this man in the darkness, both still wearing their finest clothes while the sounds of night-time cooed around them, Hermione felt suddenly quite lost. “Lucius, why would you do such a thing?” she breathed.

He chuckled. “Why indeed?”

With quiet footsteps, Lucius walked upstairs and disappeared.

**1 January 1879**

Hermione discreetly cast a cooling charm, sighing at the relieving chill which raced up her petticoats. Beside her, Lucius sighed in similar relief. The Muggles around them, however, gave uncomfortable nods as they passed by. How they managed in this heat without magic, Hermione could not begin to say; her silk parasol hardly made a jot of difference without charms. As it was, the other Melburnians strolling through the Gardens remained thoroughly attired in all their petticoats and cravats in diligent obedience to European notions of propriety.

Frankly, Hermione found it preposterous; such clothes were not intended for climates such as this! Were she without magic, she would have surely rebelled and fashioned herself a lighter garment lest she die of the heat, respectability be damned.

As it was, she remained quite comfortable in her elegant summer walking dress, as did Lucius beside her in his many layers of waistcoat and cravat. Indeed, she could not see even the suggestion of perspiration by the brim of his hat; no doubt the Muggle gentlemen looked on with desperate envy.

Such was the way they welcomed the new year. A deviation, to be sure, from the cold and damp manner in which Hermione had entered every other year of her life. Likewise, the length of the days and the brightness of the sun had felt utterly inappropriate for Yule, and she had had no objection when Lucius charmed their residence to more wintry temperatures in keeping with the holiday.

A breeze passed by, momentarily displacing the heat, and the Muggles around them visibly savoured the brief respite. Hermione and Lucius continued on down the path, her hand comfortably in the crook of his arm. The plant-life around her seemed less exotic than when they had first landed all those months ago, yet she still looked upon them in awe, fully bloomed as they were, and inhaled their fragrances with curious delight. She longed to see them blossom further into the summer season and beyond. A local potioneer had already made extraordinary discoveries as to the magical uses of indigenous flowers; perhaps if she wrote a letter, she could secure herself a position as their assistant?

The prospect excited her, though it carried with it some trepidation as to its potential permeance, and eventually she found herself unable to shake her anxieties and instead opted to voice them.

“Lucius.”

“Hm?”

“I meant to ask, but I suppose I never did… I wonder, when you initially decided to travel here, how long did you intend to be away from England?”

“Between two and three years, I believe.” Hermione kept her gaze firmly affixed to the path ahead, the marvellous greenery and couples walking by. Surely if she looked at him, into those silvery eyes, she would become too distracted by the quivering in her belly that she would trip on her own hem! “If I may enquire, what were your own intentions?”

Hermione struggled to maintain an air of false nonchalance. “I suppose I intended a much more permanent residency, though I did not completely reject the possibility of returning to England, eventually.”

“I see.”

Hermione held her breath, barely hearing the cries of strange birds as the feeling of Lucius beside her seemed to multiply tenfold. Could he hear her unvoiced question? Did he know, to her shame, how desperately she felt the need to—to—

“’Intended.’”

“Pardon?”

“You spoke of your designs in the past tense. Would one be mistaken in assuming that your plans have since… evolved?”

With an anxious swallow, Hermione replied with all the air of someone who did not care as much as she did, “I suppose that would depend on several factors.”

“Those being?”

“Well, one would be foolish to stay in a country without purpose.”

“And you feel as though you have none, here?”

“I did not say such a thing, merely that, were I to stay for a great length of time, such an occupation would be necessary.”

“I daresay you may find that in your charities.”

“I may indeed, sir.”

They lapsed into silence once again; for want of some way to occupy herself, lest she drive herself mad, Hermione cast another cooling charm. Lucius guided them down a narrower, more secluded path, alongside a neat little forest of imported bamboo. Hermione’s blood quivered, so full of emotion and with no avenue through which to release it. Though she could not articulate precisely why, the notion of him leaving Melbourne forever struck a passion she could not define.

“And what of your own plans, sir?” she queried, desperate not to let her anxiety reveal itself. “Have they changed at all since arriving here, or do you still intend to return to Wiltshire in two years’ time?”

“Well, my dear, I suppose I find myself in a similar position. Should this country prove to be unworthy of my efforts, I would certainly travel back to Britain. To persuade me to remain, however… As you said, I would require a compelling occupation.”

“I see,” echoed Hermione. “And do you believe you’ve found one?”

Hermione could not be sure when she had turned to look at him, only that he now gazed at her with heated eyes and provocative twist of lip. The Muggles around them had disappeared; they had wandered into a pretty little grove, secluded on all sides by plush greenery. _Not unlike when we first landed here after we fled that horrible wreck…_

“The connections I have made here, the work I have done to establish a magical government… quite a noble calling, don’t you think?”

He now stood directly before her.

“I suppose.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “And that may necessitate my staying.”

“Indeed, it may.”

His hand came to her waist, settling there, keeping her close, and Hermione ceased to breathe.

“A daunting prospect, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She had no words with which to reply.

Lucius searched her eyes and she could do naught but stare back, certain that some part of her body would ignite, though unsure whether the sunlight or the wizard’s touch would be to blame.

Indeed, that hand grew firmer until she felt her bodice brush his front, and she gasped at the pressure of his other palm coming to her upper arm, making its way to her exposed collarbone.

Several expressions crossed his pale eyes, intrigue and deliberation, and she scarcely saw the decision pass over his face before he tilted his head to hers and the warmth of his lips pressed gently against her own.

A noise escaped her, a cry of startled pleasure, before her eyes swiftly closed and her body betrayed her, melting into his hold. Sensation ambushed her—his hand now wrapped around her back—his gloved thumb stroking her jaw—the broad hardness of his chest—! Her arms hung limply at her sides, utterly at the mercy of his touches and her own pleasure in them, the agonising tenderness of his kisses which he slowly and lavishly bestowed upon her mouth, leaving her aching for something she could not quite define.

At long last, she found herself once again trapped in his gaze. Where she was utterly disarmed, his focus had sharpened into a piercing scrutiny from which she could not look away.

His thumb still traced her jaw, back and forth, seemingly without his knowledge; he glanced at it with surprise before, to her regret, retracting himself entirely.

“Curious,” murmured he. “Shall we return to the masses?”

How could she protest? Indeed, she found herself to have no words at all. Her hand once again found the crook of his elbow and they returned to the little path to give polite nods to the passers-by.

~*~

The warm breeze toyed with the curtains; Hermione watched them shiver in milky darkness, then shivered herself as the magic around her bed chilled the air travelling by her skin.

Merlin help her, but she could not sleep! Peace evaded her in both body and mind, and every caress of her nightgown against her skin merely tormented her further.

He had touched her, there, above her hip, while ravishing her mouth, and may all the gods forgive her, but she wanted more, desperately ached for it! For hours she had scolded herself, attempted to rationalise her way back to the land of the reasonable, yet nothing offered relief, not even her own hands, which she could not help but compare to his.

Yet in all her years, Hermione Granger had never been a witch who tolerated a grievance which could be remedied, nor did she ever intend to be one.

With an indignant huff, she climbed from her bed and marched down the corridor to knock on the only other occupied bedroom.

“Enter.” The door swung inwards of its own accord, revealing the silhouette of a four-poster bed. Behind it, in front of the window, sat Lucius in an armchair. The only light came from the moon; it caressed his hair in shimmery strokes and sharpened his cheekbones. “Trouble sleeping, my dear?”

Oh, she had had quite enough of his coyness! She strode into the room, brimming with so many accusations and demands that she could not decide which to voice. The floor felt cold against her bare feet. All the while his bemused expression did not change, and she found herself undone once again by the burning memory of his kiss.

“Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what, madam?”

“What you said as we walked. Earlier. You said you might stay here, in this country, for—for a long while, perhaps. Did you speak truthfully?”

For a long moment, he merely looked at her and Hermione wondered what it meant, wondered what she wanted it to mean. At length, he shut his book and gave a little smile, but only to himself. “Tsk, tsk, madam. You are hardly subtle in your interrogations; do you know that? If this is how you conduct business, I believe you’ll meet with much greater success if you employ some artfulness.” A tumbler appeared on the table beside him; he filled it from a crystal decanter. “Would you care for some brandy? I daresay it will do you good.”

_Yes, so that I may throw it at you!_ she thought ruefully. Her posture did not relax and her breath did not ease while he assembled his drink at a mockingly slow tempo, yet she had learned after all these months that such a ploy was not necessarily designed to vex her, but rather to give him the moment he needed to decide upon his answer. _Far be it from a Malfoy to admit he needs time to think!_

She remained silent, and was rewarded when he eventually asked, “Do you know how much I have donated to your causes, Hermione?”

“Our treasurer keeps record of the figures—”

“Near fifty-four-thousand pounds.” He sipped his brandy pensively and Hermione wondered if she would now be expected to perform some elaborate display of gratitude. “Why would I do such a thing, do you think?”

“Why is it any concern of mine?”

“Come now, madam; you have so generously analysed my motivations in the past. Humour me. Why am I so charitable? Malfoys are hardly known for our philanthropy.”

“Yes, you are—”

He waved his hand. “Only for politics. Now, what do I have to gain by feeding Melbourne’s hungry women?”

“Satisfying moral duty.”

He laughed, a great bark of amusement. “Let us not insult each other, my dear.”

“ _I_ am not the one insulted by the accusation of empathy, sir.”

“Indeed.” He tipped back the crystal tumbler, swallowing the last of his liquor. Hermione saw his throat bob, the moisture around his lips as he replaced the glass on the table. _May he be damned! Damned for it all!_

“No, madam. I’m afraid my motivations are far more deplorable than trivial compassion.” His smirks now gone, Lucius turned to look at the window, as though the moon might hold some answer he sought. “I give because it pleases you.”

“I beg your pardon? I never sought your charity—!”

“You enjoy helping those unfortunate women. It thrills you; Merlin knows why.”

“Because it improves the welfare of others!” she exclaimed heatedly. This insufferable wizard was sat, still gazing out the window with a resigned serenity that drove her quite mad—how dare he speak so evasively! How dare he toy with the affections she had not yet decided to give! “If you truly donate to—to _please_ me, my happiness is hardly worth so great a sum.” Indeed, the notion of such money being spent in the name of her satisfaction sat heavy upon her shoulders. “Furthermore, my pleasure is not available for purchase!”

Lucius chortled. “Perhaps not. Though believe you me, my dear; if I wished to so expediently purge my wealth, I would do so with far more sophistication. On fine brandy, perhaps.”

_Vexing man!_

Why would he do such things? And what could his purpose be in telling her? She’d never had the patience for such Slytherin coyness.

“I’ve no interest in riddles, sir. If you wish to say something, speak it plainly.”

With a great sigh, he set his empty glass upon the table and turned to her, one leg crossed across the other. The moonlight cast strange, silvery shadows across his clothes. “I’ve said all that I will on the matter. Whether you choose to understand it is entirely up to you, madam.”

Oh, she wanted to hex him! Curse him until all his pretty hair fell out!

But she had no wand, only her summer nightdress and the ribbon holding back her hair.

_Whether you choose to understand it_ …

She was no fool and she did not think for a second that he thought her to be one, either. His little trials were not a commentary on her stupidity but rather his own inability to confess his own feelings. Far be it from a man to admit his own weakness before asking her to expose her own!

She wanted to leave him to his machinations but could not bring herself to move. An excitement thrummed, low and heavy, and already her mind plotted and planned all the wonderful possibilities now unfurling. She could not resist.

“Stay.”

The space between where she stood, back pressing against the wall, and where he sat by the window, casually reclined, gaped.

“Stay?”

“Yes. Don’t sail back to England.”

“And why do you propose I do such a thing, Mrs. Malfoy?”

She could scarcely speak an idea before another erupted into existence; all the breathtaking possibilities outran each other in her mind. At last, she had found the vision which had chased her around the Earth! “Imagine what we could do, Lucius. You are so liked by the wizarding elite in this city and they have yet to properly establish a government! You are positioned to be one of the most powerful wizards in this country, perhaps even minister, one day.”

“And this pleases you?”

“Of course not! But with me here, and the influence I have earned within my organisations, combined with your wealth of resources… Oh, don’t you see? We could build a society that is kind to the less fortunate, where wizards and Muggles alike are protected from poverty and abuse. Your wealth can save so many of Melbourne’s destitute, Lucius. Do you understand? You have such power at your disposal. And me—I can advise you. Politically, that is. You are desperately in need of a witch’s voice in your little group of colleagues. How do you expect to establish a magical government when you haven’t a clue what half of its population demand? I can assist in drafting policy and designing resources for witches and children in need. The perfect society, Lucius. And we have the power to build it!”

“A Muggleborn witch in government would hardly be orthodox.”

“I am the daughter of a gentleman, sir. I am as honourable and dignified as any of you. And let us not delude ourselves: You and your gentlemen are entirely unqualified to write such policies.”

Lucius hummed thoughtfully and stood from his chair. Hermione, near trembling from excitement, could not move an inch from her spot on the floor and bit her tongue lest she continue to assail him with the marvellous images assembling themselves in her head.

“If you wish to build your utopia here, you cannot return to England, either.”

“ _I_ was never the one who planned to leave.”

Lucius gave a small nod of concession and appeared to think for several moments. Hermione’s patience frayed; would he never tire of all this performative contemplation? He knew as well as she that her proposal was sound, that it fulfilled the perfect merging of their talents and passions.

He turned to her, barely two paces’ distance from where she stood. “Supposing this all takes place… would you continue to reside here?”

“Would you send me away?”

“You would have to continue to masquerade as my wife. Could you tolerate such a life?”

“Could you tolerate continuing to parade me on your arm, insolent and undeserving Muggleborn that I am? Let me bring shame upon your family name as I quarrel with your colleagues about politics?” He stood so near now that Hermione had to tilt her head to maintain her unyielding stare.

“You _are_ quite the impertinent creature, aren’t you?”

“And you are a selfish, elitist bastard!”

His chuckle resonated through her ribs. “Such language, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Bloody nuisance!”

Any more insults she could devise dissolved into the heavy pulsing of her blood as he came so near that his front brushed against her breasts. Had he ever been so close since the night he dragged her from the wreck of that godforsaken ship? She now found herself quite trapped between his body and the wall, though she felt no fear; the glimmer in his eyes offered danger she desired.

Half a year had passed and still he had not once addressed her as anything other than his wife.

When his head made that same tilt it had done in the Gardens, Hermione did not wait for him to lean in the rest of the way; in a frenzy of feverish passion, she pulled him down for a hard kiss. Her fingers curled into the back of his head and neck, no doubt leaving marks, and the pressure of his mouth against her provided more pain than pleasure. Lucius groaned, a deep sound which echoed through every part of her. His hand came to the wall beside her head, bracing his weight as he pressed against her and she pulled him even closer, standing on her toes to better reach his lips, then sighing when his kisses became deeper. His other hand wrapped around her back, anchoring her against his chest and she gasped at the obscene feeling of his tongue against hers, the scorching passion of him. From every side the sensation of him assailed her; surely she would die, surely this trembling in her very core would tear her to blissful pieces in his arms?

She whimpered at the loss of his lips when he pulled away, dragging his mouth instead along her jaw to hover by her ear, his hot breath drawing gooseflesh as he chuckled into her hair.

“Very well, Mrs. Malfoy,” he murmured. She shivered when his lip brushed the shell of her ear. “You win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lumione has been a guilty pleasure of mine for ages, so finally writing something for them was heaps of fun (and also super challenging as I’ve never written Lucius before. Their dynamic is so carefully balanced and difficult to capture). I’d like to give a quick shout out to the_artful_scribbler for her amazing period Lumione works that definitely influenced how I wrote.
> 
> I did a lot of research for this story; all the news articles, dates, and locations are all real. If you’re interested in the Loch Ard then I highly recommend doing some googling. The story of the real survivors (Tom and Eva) is fascinating and you can also easily find photos of the cave, the wreck, and even the bloody peacock (it’s huge).
> 
> I’m on tumblr at 16-pennies. Inbox is always open, and I posted some of my own photos of Loch Ard Gorge if you'd like some clearer visuals. The post is tagged #loch ard photos


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